This is an evening that is referenced to in chapter 7 of Remarkable Things to Oysters but chronologically happens in the midst of chapter 3. If you would like a bit more context (and/or closure and/or 90k words of Porn With Feelings), that's where to find it.

Warnings: sexual content.

That Fucking Tiramisu (That One Time In Siena)

1801 A.D.

Italy

Siena

They simply have to see the opera while they are in Siena, Aziraphale insists. Opera isn't really Crowley's thing, per se, but watching Aziraphale enjoy something? Always a good time.

After the performance, their carriage driver tells them they absolutely must visit a small restaurant just outside the district, claiming that it has the best chef in all of Italy. When they arrive, they aren't very impressed. It looks like a house, not a restaurant, but the driver waves them in, insisting that they will not be disappointed.

They are not disappointed.

The fruits, cheeses, bruschetta, cacciucco, cappon magro... dishes and dishes of perfectly prepared food keep appearing at their table, and they are all excellent.

Aziraphale moans his way around his dinner, sending his compliments to the chef in rapid Italian, his praise becoming more and more poetic as the evening goes on (and more and more wine is consumed).

Crowley's passing appetite for food will never keep up with Aziraphale's seemingly endless hunger. Aziraphale keeps insisting that he try this, just a little taste, dear, and Crowley is powerless to resist him.

At one point Aziraphale actually lifts his own fork to Crowley's mouth, a bite of chicken, herb and tomato speared at the end of it. Aziraphale's hooded gaze rests on Crowley's mouth and the angel's lips part slightly as Crowley allows himself to be fed.

"Isn't that scrumptious, my dear?" Aziraphale asks, nearly cooing with delight. "The flavor is so delicate."

"S'good," Crowley murmurs, mesmerized by Aziraphale's gaze on his mouth. Aziraphale's eyes flick up, intensely blue in the candlelight, meeting Crowley's eyes behind his lenses, almost questioningly. "Really good, angel," Crowley adds, perhaps a tad too eagerly.

(Aziraphale could have tempted Eve to eat that apple twice as fast as Crowley had managed, though Crowley prefers to keep that theory entirely to himself.)

"Would you like to try tiramisu for dessert, signore?" The man asks as he fills their glasses with a sweet red.

"Tiramisu! Absolutely," Aziraphale exclaims, clapping his hands together in delight.

"You have had it before, signore?"

"Yes, at in a restaurant near Genoa a few years ago, if I remember correctly."

"Ahh, but then you have not had the original, signore! It was first created by Giuseppe's great-grandfather himself, right here in his kitchen, for the Grand Duke of Tuscany. The recipe has been imitated many times, but it is a family secret that we hold very dear, and it can not be truly replicated."

"Here in his kitchen? Is that why it looks like we're sitting in a... a parlor?" Crowley asks, only half paying attention. The slight flush on Aziraphale's cheeks in the candlelight is quite distracting. Crowley's words are starting to slur, his usual ease with the Italian language starting to falter. If you don't enjoy the wine while you're in Italy, why bother going? The Italians have really been mastering the art of grape rotting recently.

"Sì, signore. This used to be his parlor, and it was remade. He now lives upstairs."

"Not really a restaurant, is it," Crowley mumbles in English. Aziraphale ignores the comment.

"We would both like to try the tiramisu, per favore, grazie di cuore," Aziraphale says politely, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips in excitement.

Crowley bites anxiously at his own tongue, trying to keep his corporation under control. He's already far too worked up for this. He spent hours watching Aziraphale's face during the opera, luxuriating in that particular expression Aziraphale makes while listening to music, when his brow occasionally crumples as if he's in pain, as if the beauty of it is too much for the angel to handle.

The sight of it planted a little bundle of heat in Crowley's spine, just enough to make him hyper aware of the angel's proximity, their arms almost touching in their seats, just enough that he can't help but breathe too deeply, inhaling Aziraphale's unique honeyed scent.

Watching Aziraphale eat is much more sensual, more physical, biological... when he consumes something with his human body, when his tongue darts out onto his lips, the variety of facial expressions, his little pleased noises...

The heat grows, settling into Crowley's groin. He resists the urge to loosen his collar. Too much wine, perhaps.

Or, perhaps, not enough wine. Maybe he can drink away his budding arousal.

Crowley's thoughts circle back without his permission to the image of Aziraphale feeding him with his fork, and the rush of heat quickly spreads through his entire body. Crowley bites the inside of his cheek. Well, fuck.

The tiramisu arrives, and it is beautiful, served in cleanly cut, perfect squares. The layers are thinner and more numerous than they have seen before, though to be fair, they have each tried this dessert less than a handful of times. Aziraphale wiggles in delight and takes a deep breath of anticipation as the plate is put in front of him. Crowley is quite relieved that he chose glasses that fully cover his eyes tonight, as he can feel the yellow bleeding into the far corners of his sclera. He curses his lack of control over these eyes that he thought he had mastered a long time ago.

Aziraphale claims he consumes food to maintain appearances, but this excuse gets rather flimsy when it comes to sweets. No, eating dessert after a multiple course meal is undeniably for pleasure, whether you're a human or an angel. It's just over the border into sinful, and it gets Crowley so worked up to watch an angel, this angel, give in to base pleasure, to hedonism, to gluttony.

Don't watch, Crowley tries to tell himself, already knowing he's going to watch.

Aziraphale stares at the confection in front of him. It is made of the lightest cake, soaked with espresso and marsala wine, layered with custards and fluffy cream, a generous dusting of cocoa across the top. This dessert is the perfect balance of bitter and sweet, the coffee and cocoa contrasting perfectly with the sweetness of wine and cream.

Aziraphale's fork pierces the top layer of cream and sinks effortlessly to the bottom, sliding through layer upon layer of decadence. Crowley watches, entranced, as Aziraphale lifts the first bite to his mouth and slides it inside.

"Mmmm..." Aziraphale hums in pleasure, his eyes sliding closed, the flush on his cheeks deepening. The fork slowly slides out, Aziraphale's pink lips pursed around it.

Crowley takes advantage of Aziraphale's closed eyes to quickly adjust himself in his trousers. He's been half hard for most of dinner, and he already can tell this is... this is going to be intense.

"Aren't you going to try it, dear?"

"Yeah, er... yeah," Crowley tries to hide a stammer, not realizing Aziraphale was paying any attention to him at all.

Crowley takes a quick bite, and oh, it really is good. Crowley has been avidly consuming coffee since the humans discovered it and started brewing it. One of their cleverest inventions, in his opinion, soaking beans in hot water. Almost as clever as the rotting grapes one. And the distilling and... and aging... of the... er, however they figured out whisky. Fuck, he could really use some whisky.

"Do you like it?" Aziraphale asks, his eyes half closed, his fork suspended in air, as he stares at Crowley.

And oh, watching Aziraphale watching him taste it... Aziraphale licks his lips, just slightly, and Crowley's cock eagerly responds, filling in his trousers, fully hardening.

Crowley just barely suppresses a little noise of disbelief at what looks like an incredibly leading tongue movement and sounds like an incredibly leading question to his blood-starved brain. Does he like it? Which bit? Crowley likes a lot of what's happening right now. He likes the image of Aziraphale indulging his gluttony. He likes the remaining wetness on Aziraphale's lower lip from the swipe of his glistening tongue. He likes the wine flush on Aziraphale's cheeks that is slowly becoming more and more vivid as the evening goes on. He especially likes the noises, the little huffs of breath, the hums of pleasure. Crowley even likes the way his cock is rubbing against his trousers, the pressure of it sending waves of pleasure through him.

Crowley suspects that his face is starting to redden. He tries to hold it back, but he's unsure of how successful he's being. It does feel rather warm in here. It could be the wine, right? He can blame the wine. It's definitely the wine's fault that his control is slipping. Big fan of wine, him. Italian wine. Terrific. He likes when Aziraphale's mouth tastes like wine.

Oh, right, he's meant to say something.

"Even up to your standards, eh, angel?" Crowley sidesteps the actual question, tries to inject a little levity into the atmosphere, hoping it might loosen his tension.

It doesn't. Aziraphale just smiles, and Crowley squirms slightly in his chair, his face and palms definitely warm now. He's unable to tear his eyes away from the vision in front of him, his favorite of the very many things that he likes right now.

Aziraphale is in his utmost finery today. The angel would go to the opera in nothing less, of course. Aziraphale is usually at least a few decades behind when it comes to fashion, but Crowley doesn't mind, at least not at this point in history (the ruff had lived in Aziraphale's daily wardrobe for far too long. Crowley swears that Aziraphale was the last person on the planet to wear one outside of historical theatre).

Aziraphale looks lovely as ever tonight, in frills and lace, a pale blue brocade coat, bronze buttons, a lace white cravat, white ruffles at his wrists, cream colored heeled shoes... Other than the color, it's very similar to the outfit Aziraphale had worn the day he had been chained up and nearly executed by guillotine, the day they had...

Don't think about Paris, Crowley tries to tell himself, already knowing he won't be able to stop, already drowning in the vivid memories of heat, feathers, and the constellations he had made with his teeth on Aziraphale's body...

Aziraphale takes another bite, and the moan this time around his fork is so obscene that Crowley glances around surreptitiously to make sure nobody else is listening. He would almost suspect that Aziraphale was being loud on purpose, but that would be absurd.

Crowley takes a slow, steady breath, his fingers twitching on his fork. He takes another bite, tearing his eyes away from Aziraphale's eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks.

When his gaze is magnetically drawn back to Aziraphale's mouth, he sees a hint of cocoa lingering in the corner of Aziraphale's lips. His fingers itch to reach up and touch it, to wipe it right into Aziraphale's mouth, to feed it to him. If they were alone, Crowley could have leaned over to clean it away with his tongue, sharing the bitterness of the cocoa between them, the sweetness of the wine, of the custard. If they were alone, it would be easy to kiss the cocoa away, to lick his mouth clean, to tempt Aziraphale into more carnal pleasures...

But if they had been alone, and if he did any of that, then Aziraphale would know.

Crowley takes another slow breath, desperately hoping that Aziraphale hasn't noticed the thumping on his rapid heartbeat, a noise that seems unbearably, ridiculously loud.

Crowley has been indulging in watching Aziraphale eat for a long time now, but the past few years, now that they have, er... known each other (in a more Biblical sense), it's so much more difficult to keep his mind from wandering, comparing Aziraphale's noises and expressions between the pleasures of eating and the pleasures of arousal.

Tonight, by far, is the hardest it has been since Rome for Crowley to control himself, to keep Aziraphale from realizing what is happening to Crowley's body at the sight of his hedonism.

There's nothing for Crowley to do but keep breathing in air he doesn't need, trying to calm his heart rate, trying to pretend he doesn't want to push Aziraphale down onto his back onto the table, straddle him, and feed the angel the rest of the tiramisu with his fingers, watching Aziraphale suck every last trace of cream from his fingertips.

Aziraphale finally notices the traces of cocoa at the corner of his lips and his tongue reaches out and flicks up to retrieve it. The angel pats his mouth primly with his napkin.

Crowley's cock starts dribbling precome.

It's useless, Crowley tries to tell his body, give it up. They are in someone's house. The only privacy is the alley nearby, and Crowley already knows it's not an option, because... standards. Maybe if plain robes were still the norm in this millennia, or if these clothes were easier to clean, or if the alleys were less filthy, Crowley would have been able to tempt Aziraphale into some stolen kisses, maybe even...

But no, even if... he simply can't let Aziraphale figure out how much this affects him, it's just too embarrassing, it's humiliating. Every meal would become awkward, and offering meals is one of Crowley's most reliable methods of initiating or extending their meetings, of getting his fix before their duties call them apart again. The risk of sabotaging himself in the future is too great. He craves Aziraphale's reactions as much as Aziraphale craves food. He can't ruin this, can't tamper with the delicate balance of the Arrangement, especially not now that Aziraphale is (finally, incredibly, unbelievably, impossibly) open to sharing his bed.

Crowley takes another bite, watching Aziraphale do the same. Somehow the idea that they're both tasting the same flavor at the same time sends another rush of heat through his spine.

Aziraphale's head tilts back, just slightly, and Crowley's eyes immediately fall to his throat, just barely visible above his collar, aching to sink his teeth into the skin there, wanting to hear that little gasp Aziraphale always makes when he does.

Crowley's cock twitches again at the thought of it, throbbing in the confines of his trousers, starting to become painful against the seam, bursting with want.

Aziraphale's portions are starting to become smaller, drawing out the experience, his fork picking up the thinnest of his slivers as the slice of tiramisu dwindles in front of him.

Crowley watches every last bite, his own dessert forgotten in front of him, pretending his full attention is on the wineglass in his hand.

When Aziraphale's plate is clean, his eyes slide over to Crowley's plate, which has not been touched for several minutes, where half a square of tiramisu sits abandoned.

Crowley slides the plate towards him with a slightly tense chuckle, swapping Aziraphale's empty plate with his own.

"Go ahead, angel," Crowley says in a light, casual tone, because really, how can he help himself from offering?

Aziraphale leans forward as he moves their plates, visibly eager, and Crowley nonchalantly drops an arm to his lap to try to disguise the rock hard lump in his trousers, unsure whether Aziraphale can see anything from his angle. The look on Aziraphale's face is purely, entirely erotic, so close to the expression he makes when he's about to beg for more of Crowley's tongue, fingers or cock.

Aziraphale starts over, his fork sliding through layers of cream, lifting a sliver of tiramisu to his lips, sliding it inside, pursing his lips.

Fuck, what was Crowley thinking, extending this experience? This is both bliss and torture, all buildup with no chance of release. But he how could he help himself? He can't, not when he knows Aziraphale wants something that Crowley is able to give him so easily.

Each forkful has started to feel like a performance. Crowley can't stand to keep watching, but his eyes refuse to look away.

Aziraphale makes another little moaning noise, right as Crowley reaches for the bottle of wine to refill his glass again. Crowley's hand falters at the sound and his sleeve slips into the traces of cream on the plate in front of him.

"Ngk. 'Ssscuse me," Crowley murmurs, embarrassed at his clumsiness but utterly relieved that he now has an excuse to use a human restroom. He turns his back to Aziraphale as he stands. The waiter sees him stand and gestures him in the right direction.

Crowley locks the door behind him and immediately leans back against it, quickly pulling his throbbing cock from his trousers, his fingers tracing along the wetness dripping from the head as he envisions Aziraphale's mouth around his fork, making that humming noise of delight. Crowley's mouth drops open and his breath increases in pace, his grip tightening, the image in his mind transforming to Aziraphale humming with that same noise with his pink lips wrapping around the head of Crowley's dripping cock. The image shifts again, now featuring Aziraphale on his knees before him, keeping his head still, letting Crowley thrust into his mouth. He thrusts against his palm, his pace increasing quickly.

Fuck, he's already so close, he's been hard for so long. The memory of the feeling of Aziraphale's tongue on the underside of his prick is so vivid.

His time is limited. Washing a sleeve may have taken this long for a human, but Aziraphale knows all Crowley has to do is snap his fingers.

But it doesn't matter, it won't take much longer. He chases his pleasure, fucking his own fist, imagining thrusting onto Aziraphale's tongue, tangling his fingers through that fluff of blond hair, pulling on it, directing his head.

His mind flashes back to Paris, to the angel's mouth on him, his unpracticed lips and tongue eagerly exploring Crowley's body for the first time, and that's all it takes.

Crowley bites his lip to keep himself from crying out as he explodes in his fist, spasms of pleasure shooting through his cock, all of his muscles tensing. He barely keeps himself from gasping out Aziraphale's name.

He rides the wave of orgasm for as long as he dares before snapping his fingers to clean up the mess of his clothes and refasten his trousers. His hands are shaking a little bit. He peers into the mirror and realizes his face is flushed. He quickly pats some water on his face, trying to focus. He stares down his reflection, forcing his blood vessels to calm, forcing the yellow to retreat from the corners of his eyes. He adjusts his glasses.

He's fine. He's the fucking Serpent of Eden, and Aziraphale should not be able, or be allowed, to affect him like this. He just needs to learn how to control himself again. He's managed to control himself while watching Aziraphale eat for over a thousand years. Just because now he knows what it feels like to have Aziraphale's tongue wrapped around his cock, doesn't mean he's entirely lost control of his body's reactions. Right? This is absurd.

He has hundreds of years of practice controlling his reactions. It has just been so different this decade, ever since Paris, as if all of that experience and discipline were very abruptly deemed irrelevant. It was as if his corporation had been reconfigured overnight, all the levers and cogs rearranged, his practiced control now useless.

He can relearn control. He must.

He'll be fine. Just fine. He just has to train his mind again, start from scratch.

It's fine.

He gives his reflection a hollow, desperate grin.

Crowley slides casually back into his seat, his composure mostly regained, his mind still floating a little in post orgasmic bliss, most of the tension drained from his body. Their empty dessert plates were cleared away, he notices with relief, removing the temptation to swipe his fingertip through the remaining cream and slide it onto the angel's tongue.

Only the tenuously regained control over his corporation keeps Crowley's cock from starting to twitch again in interest.

Aziraphale doesn't seem to notice anything unusual, his attention focused on his wine glass.

As Crowley counts out money to pay for their meal, he misses a peculiar look on Aziraphale's face. It's an unusual expression, one that Crowley would have noticed immediately, had he seen it.

For just a moment, a little smirk plays over Aziraphale's lips, his eyebrows lifting a little in what looks suspiciously like satisfaction. The devious expression of a bastard of an angel, whose long held theory has been proven true beyond reasonable doubt.

The "sequel" to this can be found in chapter 7 of Remarkable Things To Oysters.